


Eat, Drink, and Be Merry

by eyemeohmy



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Bond Villains, Fancharacters - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Present Tense, Squick, Theatrical assholes, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemeohmy/pseuds/eyemeohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Degradation and decadence go hand in hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eat, Drink, and Be Merry

**Author's Note:**

> For my friend Jabs on tumblr as a prize for a meme eons ago. She asked for Sentinel/Proteus involving their twisted yet pretty fluffy relationship.
> 
> So, here is a quick little ficlet of a dastardly, classist politician and his giant, dastardly macho bodyguard having a night out on the town by torturing the lower class roaches. Er--it's charity?

The bright-fuchsia liquid elegantly— _elegantly_ —spills onto the cold, dirtied floor, forming a small puddle.

The dim-eyed bot covered in filth and rust looks up from the spot he’s been worrying into the ground with his frightened gaze. His optics widen with shock; he glances from the spill to the smile on the seated mech’s face.

"A ‘94. What a wonderful cycle." Proteus holds up the wine glass, glowing high grade swishing in small, calculated swirls. "A rare beauty with an exceptional body and taste. You’ve no idea how much this cost me." He folds one leg over the other, and one edge of his wicked little grin quirks. "It shouldn’t go to waste, don’t you think?" he asks, a croon in his voice.

The mech swallows, hard. He shuffles forward on his hands and knees, over to the puddle of liquor. It’s not so much anger—he’s long since abandoned his pride; pride doesn’t put energon in your tanks, or shelter over your head when you live in the gutters, covered in waste and scraplets—but rather fear. It’s a rational fear, he knows, Proteus knows. Because this could end very badly, especially if he makes one false move or a look that can be even remotely accused of being ungrateful or offended.

The mech’s optics flick up as he looks over Proteus’s shoulder, at that observant, unblinking gaze standing vigil behind him. He tenses up immediately when Proteus slips the edge of his foot beneath his chin, forcing his head up and back with a rough little jab.

"Pay no attention to him," Proteus orders, and the way he looks so insulted and so cold, the mech can feel the contents of his mostly empty-tank churn, "rather rude, don’t you think?"

"S-Sorry," the mech hiccups, his voice glitching. It’s been glitching for weeks now; badly needs repairs. But there’s nothing he can do. He doesn’t have the money. He doesn’t even remember the last time he even _had_ money.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t waste anymore time—Proteus’s time—and slowly lowers his head to the ground. He feels a shiver run through his struts; tongue flicks out, and licks the surface of the puddle. It’s bitter; it looked so sweet, so warm, but it’s cold and it’s bitter and while beggars cannot be choosers—

The mech grunts; sudden pressure on his head, and a second later, his face is slammed into the ground, into the liquor-puddle. His nose makes a sickening _crunch_ as it breaks upon impact. Proteus keeps his foot on the bot's head, even as primal fear has him wriggling and trying to break free. Keeps his face pinned against the cold floor.

"Need I remind you this was an expensive bottle," Proteus says, but he doesn’t sound upset or bothered. Just casual. "You could at least be grateful.” He digs his foot against the mech’s head, and more plating snaps to the pressure; the mech whimpers, loudly, fingers scrambling blindly at the ground.

"So show a little respect."

The foot finally lifts, and the mech pushes himself upright. Too quick, his mind swims, but settles shortly. Proteus sneers with disgust and a trace amount of amusement at the lines of energon running down the hobo’s face, from the gashes in his cheeks and busted nose. It drips from his chin, onto his rusted chestplates, and despite how much he wants the run, the homeless bot knows he can’t.

It’s stopped being an act of “charity.” It’s a game now. He can’t back out, can’t refuse their “hospitality.” They want a show, with or without his consent. He swallows, hard, and wills himself to ignore the humiliation and fear. He leans down again, laps up the high grade—with some enthusiasm this time. It’s forced, but it’s enough, apparently. He can’t even taste the liquor; it’s mostly just bled energon now, congealing thick to the surface. It makes the flavor even more bitter. If there was anything in his tank right now, the bastard would be vomiting. It even smells awful.

Proteus smiles again. “Now, really,” he says, and sits back, comfortable; holds a hand over his shoulder. “Who says I’m not generous to the poor lower class?”

The pair of optics watching silently and still behind him until now shifted. Heavy footfalls, and the hobo forced himself not to look up as Sentinel Prime suddenly took shape beneath the light cast over Proteus’s little throne. His larger fingers brush against Proteus’s; it’s a soft, loving gesture, and if the homeless runt wasn’t focusing on his drink, he would have been very, very confused.

Such displays of affection seemed uncharacteristic. At least from Sentinel. But there they were; Sentinel’s hand now resting on Proteus’s shoulder, Proteus watching the show with a relaxed smile, half-lidded optics, idly, tenderly reaching a hand back to rub circles and strokes along Sentinel’s knuckles and digits.

"You’d be doing him a bigger favor if you put him out of his misery," Sentinel says.

A chuckle rumbles in Proteus’s throat. "That would be nice, wouldn’t it? If I could, I would put all of his kind out of their _misery_." The words bite, dripping with condescending abhorrence.

A chill runs down the homeless bot’s backstrut. Once he thinks he’s drunk most of the energon and high grade, he slowly sits up. Waits for a foot to collide with his head again. Apparently, he wasn’t being disobedient. His head remains bowed, optics staring up from beneath his dented green-yellow crest. His facial wounds have stopped bleeding, and the pain has numbed to a dull stinging sensation. But the fear remains ever prevalent; he was beginning to doubt he would make it out of here alive.

And it doesn’t take long before the gutter-bot’s system registers the foreign substance and he keels over, instantly vomiting all of it back up. His body is so used to polluted, low grade energon; it’s a shock to his system, and he wants to stop retching, but he can’t. He wraps his arms around himself, dermal plating clattering against his skeletal frame, purging every drop of liquid in his tank and thensome.

Proteus sneers, wrinkles his nose. “How revolting.” He slowly rises to his feet and sighs; takes a sip of his drink over the loud vomiting and hacking. Proteus looks at his glass before pouring the rest of the liquor onto the sick bot’s head. It runs in thick streaks down his arched, shivering back. Proteus pitches the glass across the warehouse; it hits the wall, shatters instantly, shards falling into a pile of rubbage.

"Come," he says to Sentinel lingering beside him, "let's go." He sniffs, expression blank. "I’m bored."

"Just one more thing, if you please."

Proteus squints. He doesn’t get it, and yet he does. It’s just not to his taste. Sentinel, however, has always been the more violent of the two. “You’ve five kliks,” he huffs, annoyed nonetheless.

Sentinel knows how much this irritates the dear senator, but he smiles and leans down. Proteus hesitates but ultimately gives in; pecks a kiss to the corner of Sentinel’s mouth, and accepts a caress to his chevron in return.

Proteus gives the beggar one last look of aversion. He’s since stopped vomiting, but he’s still shaking, wheezing awkwardly. Surrounded by his own mess. Proteus looks away; there is no pity, nor sympathy in how he simply glides out of the warehouse, shutting the door behind him.

The homeless bot gets up to leave, though he knows his knees will just give out. But a large hand forces him back down, anyway. He looks up, vision blurred, optics dim, as Sentinel slowly squats beside him.

"You heard Senator Proteus," Sentinel replies, sliding his hand down to the nape of the mech’s neck. Shoves him forward, face hovering above the puddle of vomit. "We don’t want this to go to waste."

The mech whimpers. Fingers tighten around his neck, edges burying into seams.

He can’t back out now. He has no choice. They want a show.

**Author's Note:**

> I enjoy viewing these two as typical, classical villains with all the crazy "covered in thick furs and diamonds, diabolically but tenderly stroking a white Persian cat, cackling as they threaten to thrust Earth into an eternal winter if the world's governments don't pay them fifty billion trillion dollars" Bond villain-esque traits.


End file.
